Sourpuss Gibbs
by Chirugal
Summary: It's Abby's birthday, and Gibbs isn't getting into the spirit of the evening... Written for the prompt 'sour' at the Gabby forum. Gibbs/Abby, one-shot, complete.


**Title**: Sourpuss Gibbs  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers**: None  
**Summary**: Abby tells it like it is…

**Author's Note**: Written for Gabby Tuesday over at the forum - the prompt was 'sour'. Written under the influence of a headache, so apologies for any fail!

* * *

"Come on, Gibbs… don't be such a sourpuss!"

Everyone within earshot winces, surreptitiously watching Gibbs to see how he'll react. Abby stands by the table, her hand outstretched expectantly.

He gazes up at her, one eyebrow arching in warning. "Sourpuss?"

"It's my birthday! Ducky's danced with me. Palmer's danced with me. Tony's danced with me. McGee's danced with me, and so has Ziva. You're the only one who hasn't!"

"And calling me names is supposed to convince me?" he asks.

"You've stopped taking me out the night before my birthday. This is the second year running. Just one dance, Gibbs. That's all I'm asking for."

"Gave up dancing after my fourth wedding reception, Abbs." Shrugging, he knocks back the last of the bourbon he's been nursing for the past couple of hours. "Sulking's not gonna change it."

Exasperated and a little hurt, Abby glares at him. Tony steps in diplomatically. "C'mon, Abbs. I'll fill in for him."

"You probably dance better, anyway," Abby mutters, following him onto the dance floor.

* * *

By the time she gets home, it's late. Gibbs and Ducky both took off not long after her request for a dance with Gibbs, and though she's drinking mostly caffeine, she's a tiny bit tipsy by the time she reaches her apartment door.

Gibbs is sitting outside it, jotting something down in his case notebook. He looks up casually as she approaches. "Have a good night?"

Bemused, she nods. "When I wasn't being turned down flat for a birthday dance, yeah."

While she fits her key into the apartment's lock, Gibbs gets to his feet. "Mind if I come in?"

"You never needed permission for that," she tells him, and it's true. Although it feels as though there's more distance between them now than there was in the past, a hidden part of her always seems to relax when he's around. He knows her better than anyone, even if their personalities clash every now and then.

He shuts the door behind him, and she turns to watch him. "What are you doing here, Gibbs?"

She expects him to apologise… well, not apologise, exactly… but to apologise without actually saying the words. What she _doesn't_ expect is for him to say, "I came to dance with you."

Startled, she laughs, waiting for the punchline. "Okay…?"

"It's not too much to ask."

"It was earlier on," she points out. Why does she feel so much like crying? It's not like he wasn't just being Gibbs, back there at the bar.

"I know. But there's a reason for that." Before she can demand that he explain himself, he cocks his head toward her stereo and asks, "Wanna choose your music?"

For a moment, she considers putting on something from her thrash metal compilation – the stuff where it's almost impossible to find a regular beat to move to – to throw him off balance as much as she feels right now. The urge passes pretty quickly, and she reaches out to a button she rarely uses – the one that selects a random radio station.

"We'll let the stereo decide." She presses the button once, landing on a talk show. Behind her, Gibbs shrugs off his jacket, and she bites her lip, pressing again. A radio ad fills the air, and she sighs, hitting the button again. "Third time lucky."

Something slow and melodious begins to play; not quite country and not quite rock. She doesn't recognise it; doesn't know if Gibbs does, but she spins to gauge his reaction.

He holds out his hand, and she steps into his arms.

The flare of attraction is nothing new; she's used to feeling it by now, and used to hiding it from him. Even so, the sensation of his hand resting lightly on her waist is a little more intimate than she's used to.

She struggles to hold onto her irritation. "So are you gonna tell me what this is all about?"

"Yeah."

"Tonight?"

"Mmm-hmm."

She takes the hint for now, keeping quiet and swaying in time with the music. Gibbs keeps the beat well; she guesses that four wedding receptions is a good enough explanation for that.

She's closer to him now. Was that his doing, or hers? This is a little less within the bounds of a dance between friends, and her pulse is pounding triple-time, and she daren't meet his eyes in case he notices…

One hand slides to the small of her back, pressing her lightly against his body, and she almost mis-steps, her breath catching. His other hand cups her cheek, and then his lips brush over hers, and a sweet shock jolts through her.

Somewhere in the distance, she hears the song ending, segueing into something else she can't identify. She doesn't care; all that matters is that Gibbs keeps on kissing her, gently at first, and then with more fire.

And then she comes to her senses, her scientific brain demanding answers. Turning her head before a fourth kiss can become a fifth, she whispers, "This is why you've been avoiding me outside of work?"

He nods. "Not proud of it, Abbs. Just had a hard time figuring it out."

Part of her wants to punch him for making her think she wasn't important to him any more. Part of her wants to throw herself at him in relief. She takes the third option, stepping back and beckoning him toward the couch, turning down the music volume on the way past.

Once he's taken his seat a wary couple of feet from her, Abby scoots across and leans her head against his shoulder. "What changed?"

Gibbs' voice is dry, but carries a heat hotter than brushfire. "You asked me to dance with you, and I realised the dancing I had in mind would get us kicked out of the bar."

Abby nuzzles his neck, inhaling his vaguely sawdusty scent. "Horizontal dancing?"

Amusement colouring his tone, he points out, "Can be vertical, too."

"How'd you know geometry gets me hot?" she teases, kissing him again.

"Because you're you," he murmurs against her lips, and she forgets to reply, her higher functions tuning out in favour of hedonistic instinct.

* * *

Much later, when they're both _very_ horizontal, entwined together in post-coital languor, Gibbs asks, "Still think I'm a sourpuss?"

Abby grins up at him. "Sometimes you are. I'm thinking you're gonna have to convince me otherwise on a pretty regular basis. Think you can live with that?"

"I'll manage."

_END._


End file.
